


peeling it out, feeling it out

by userkant



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Cock Worship, Come play, Dom/sub Undertones, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Insecure Harry, Insecurity, M/M, Oral Sex, Service Kink, Sexual Content, Slight:, The X Factor Era, a lot of mentions of various fluids, if that’s something that bothers you, if this makes you uncomfortable do not proceed, one mention of like. likening sexual acts to religious experiences, spit, this is set during the X-factor era so their ages are as they were
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 02:10:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19285966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/userkant/pseuds/userkant
Summary: Harry gives Louis a blowjob for the first time.





	peeling it out, feeling it out

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this listening to Medicine on repeat, so… enjoy ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Really, he’s thought about it all along.

 

He’s just so  _ pretty _ , is the thing, so alight with life, so untouchable even though he gives his sunlight-touches away like they’re nothing, like they don’t make Harry’s very heart stop in his chest from a simple brush of their knees under the dinner table, or make him lose his thread of thought every time Louis places a casual, soft hand on his thigh.

 

He’s always loved the thought of someone in his mouth, too, wanked more often than he could remember to the thought of that fullness and weight and  _ dirtiness,  _ something that still seems a little taboo and  _ thrilling  _ for it, of his throat sore and mouth dripping.

 

It didn’t take long for the images to start invading his consciousness, too, no longer limited to the dreams from which he wakes up hard and aching, or to the few minutes of privacy a day where he’s powerless to stop his thoughts from running to Louis, always Louis, as he tugs himself to an embarrassingly quick orgasm. They came even more frequently after Louis kissed him for the first time, when it became a  _ thing  _ they did, and when he first felt Louis hard against his palm and imagined that hardness in his mouth.

 

He doesn’t even remember how they got here exactly, sneaking away to one of the spare bedrooms, available now that more of the contestants have left the house, under the cover of the others’ snores. He remembers only Louis’ sweet voice in his ear, the low noise rousing him from sleep, a small hand dragging his with a laugh in a corridor, somewhere, the quiet turn of a lock, and  _ this _ .

 

_ This  _ is Louis’ hands gripping hair, pulling on it the way he’s learnt incites the loudest moans in Harry; this is a kiss so messy it’s an emotion, it’s Harry’s lips already puffy and bitten, and it’s a thigh between his, the pressure heavenly and sinful. 

 

He’s lost in it again, overwhelmed by how Louis works his body so expertly, pulls at his every string and unravels him entirely, leaving him breathless and high and soaring to a place where he feels he can do anything.

 

“Wanna suck you, Lou”. 

 

He breathes it out between moans, half-dazedly, already so far gone in just _rutting_ against Louis’ thigh, so inebriated with pleasure that he loses any filter of _too much, too early, you’re not supposed to offer, not supposed to_ _want_. He doesn't even realise what he’s said, really, can’t distinguish it amidst his moans and usual word-clumsiness around Louis when he’s still so _awed_ by how unbelievable it all is, that Louis — Louis, Louis, _Louis_ — wants him like this too. 

 

But Louis hears it, always hears him, and pulls away a fraction to look at him with eyes wild and pupils wide. He’s breathing hard now, too, and Harry can feel the rapid flutter of his chest from where they’re pressed together.

 

“Yeah? You want that?”

 

Harry realises what he’s said — too slowly, urgh, he’s always too slow — and he casts his eyes to the floor, embarrassed at his exuberance.

 

“Haz?” Louis’ voice has lost his frenzied quality after a few seconds of Harry’s silence, and he sounds clear and slightly concerned about Harry’s embarrassment. 

 

And that’s not what Harry wants at  _ all _ , for Louis to be thinking he is young, or insecure, or, god forbid, inexperienced. He  _ is _ , of course, he knows that, but he also always wants Louis to think the best of him, to never know of his many shortcomings in case he decides he can do better, be with someone older who can pleasure him in ways he’s never known. It’s crippling, sometimes, the size of this desire to be good for Louis, to be what Louis wants, and feels like a hand around his throat in moments like these.

 

But — surely Louis wants this, though? Has whispered  _ fuck _ ,  _ you’re so fit _ into Harry’s mouth enough times,  _ love your mouth, Hazza _ , and surely he wouldn’t turn this down, even if it wouldn’t be the all-consuming rapture it would for Harry. 

 

He repeats himself, meeting Louis’ eyes this time, if only masochistically, a way to punish himself for wanting such an impossibility in case what meets his gaze is Louis’ dismission, disgust. 

 

“Like, only if you do,” he hedges, and takes another breath, “but like, I really, really want to.” 

 

Louis’ eyes are blue-blue as they search his, looking for something: hesitation, maybe, or uncertainty, and he must be placated by what he finds because, “yeah, Haz, of course. Of course.” It’s an exhale in a laugh to the sky, breathy and wild, as if it’s something that seemed an impossibility to Louis, too, something he’s wanted but thought he couldn’t have, like the thought of Harry wanting it too seemed so unattainable to him, a dream.

 

“You do? I thought that you’d, dunno, find it weird that I wanted so much…” He trails off.

 

Louis’ eyes are the kindest he’s ever seen, and he seems so much older, suddenly, so much more mature, guiding Harry when he stumbles, pulling him out of deep water and onto the safe, sunlit shore of his love.

 

“Harry, darling, you could ask anything,  _ anything _ , and I’d give it to you, you don’t even  _ know   _ —  _ god _ , baby.”

 

It prickles at Harry’s eyes, the extent of Louis’ want for him, the confirmation that it is mutual, this overwhelming thing inside his chest.

 

He slides onto the floor, knees hitting the wood a little hard but he doesn’t really care, not when his face is now level with Louis’ hips and so close that the heady, bitter smell is enough to overpower his rationality.

 

“D’ you wanna go on the bed?” Louis asks, a little apprehensive. He strokes Harry’s cheek with his thumb, little circles. “Floor’s hard, won’t hurt you, yeah?”

 

And of course sweet, darling Louis would want to make sure Harry’s comfortable, doesn’t yet realise that it is  _ his  _ pleasure Harry cares about right now, his alone, and he is adamant, suddenly, for the fulfilment of his weeks-long yearning.

 

“No, wanna — want it like this.  _ God,  _ thought about it so much, Lou, have no idea,” he babbles, finally dragging his face into Louis’ clothed crotch, breathing in the smell there, the hotness, delighting in the slight dampness that he finds there, mouths over, wets further with his tongue.

 

He lathers more spit into the rough denim, wants to make it as hot and wet as him, would chew through it entirely if it meant that he’d get his mouth on Louis sooner, but Louis groans and stops him, pulls away a little, and tries to get his jeans down with one hand still tangled in Harry’s hair. It’s slow, clumsy going and that just won’t do, won’t do. Harry comes to his senses a little and helps to bring them down Louis’ legs, uncovers more soft skin, more of the light, downy hair that he wants to mat with his tongue all over, more of the heady bulge, already damp and hard-visible even through Louis’ boxers.

 

Harry pulls at them, is a second away from unveiling his prize when Louis halts him with an unsteady hand, searches his eyes.

 

“You sure, yeah?”

 

Harry just groans loudly, because — what does it look like he wants? Does it not look like he’s sure? Does Louis want him to beg, and — oh, yes, maybe he should do that too, confess of just how sure he is, how much he wants it, how nothing in the world right now could drive him away from his place between Louis’ thighs.

 

He can only distantly hear himself, a line of garbled pleas, but he distinguishes Louis’ golden-honey voice through it all, though, and he’s saying something — right, yeah, a litany of  _ yes _ es and  _ please _ s and “Harry, Hazza,  _ baby _ ”.

 

The need in Louis’ voice shoots a line of heat down Harry’s own cock, turned on beyond belief by the thrill of proof that Louis wants this as much as he does, and it’s the comfort of that verbal reassurance that gives Harry the final push of courage.

 

He avoids looking as he pulls the pants down and off of Louis’ legs, wants to deny himself the instant gratification and instead cocoon himself in the sweet, knife-sharp thrill of having what he wants most dangling just on the edge of his grasp.

 

It’s all the more heady, then, when Harry finally allows himself to drag his eyes up Louis’ golden legs, shins, thighs, and to the center of him. 

 

His cock is big, already filled out and flushed and curved and it’s a little  _ weird, _ up so close with its jumping veins. But it’s Louis, it’s such an important part of him, and he loves it too.

 

This, at least, he knows.

 

He takes Louis’ cock into his hand, holding it as reverently as he would a precious artefact, and gives it a few strokes, feeling the familiar, silky weight of it — and, oh, his stomach drops at that thought, the realisation that this, something he thought would happen only in his dreams, is actually  _ familiar  _ to him now.

 

He’s mesmerised by the beads of precome that form at the tip at his touch, but he’s stalling, he knows, because as much as he has thought about it, dreamed of it,  _ wanked  _ to it, even, it still feels safer to keep doing this, bringing Louis pleasure in the way he  _ knows  _ he is good at, the way he can’t fuck up.

 

It’s just that the reality of having it just there, in front of him, is so daunting, like this is the most important stage he will ever perform on, and though he knows this audience is the most enamoured and devoted of them all — will love him no matter what, probably — he just wants to be  _ good _ at it already.

 

Louis has done this before, Harry knows — has had this done to him, rather — and Harry cannot bear the thought of having to compete with those others (against them, against  _ her _ ), and their practice, and, god, how many times they have had to practice on Louis, and what a pool of experience Louis will have to compare him against. 

 

He knows Louis won’t think he’s  _ bad _ ; will like it, probably, regardless, but the worm of jealousy burrows its relentless way into his heart. He decides that will be the best to Louis; has a right to that position, surely, and if not through skill, then by reverence alone.

 

“How do you,” he starts, and then hides his face in Louis’ thigh so his voice is muffled, less revealing of his insecurities, “I don’t know what you, like, want… can you tell me?” 

 

Louis flops down on the bed with a groan and throws an arm over his eyes, like the sight of Harry between his parted legs is too much to bear.

 

“Anything, Haz. I’m close already, baby,  _ fuck _ .”

 

“No, I wanna make it good,” Harry says, a little petulant, but still mostly terrified to show his inexperience like this. He’s emboldened by Louis’ words enough, though, to bring his face out, closer, and feel the way the warm breath of his mouth makes Louis twitch in his hands. He moves forward to kiss it, then again open mouthed, not even intending to tease but just wanting to adore it the way he adores every part of Louis.

 

Louis shifts around, chasing Harry’s mouth as he pulls away. “Okay, just, like, lick around a little, your lips—”

 

He cuts Louis off with licks down the sides, underneath, getting it wet enough for his hand to more comfortably slide over, and gives a tentative lick to the head to taste the precome collecting there. It’s a little bitter, but it tastes like Louis, tastes like the pleasure he’s giving him, and the awe of doing something so monumental for the first time.

 

Louis’ eyes are closed and his expression is awed, lips parted. Harry figures he must be doing something right, so he redoubles his efforts, opens his mouth around the head as Louis makes a strangled, desperate sound.

 

“Yeah,” Louis pants, “and now you can, around—”

 

And this is where Louis will really be able to tell he has no fucking clue what he’s doing. He keeps pumping Louis with his hand, trying to figure out what is the best way to just  _ put it in his mouth _ , and he takes a second too long to decide. 

 

Louis looks up at his hesitance, sits up on an elbow and reaches his other hand to brush at Harry’s cheek. His eyes soften as he looks at Harry, lovingly, earnestly, and they remind him that it’s just Louis — a boy; radiant and awe-inspiring and ethereal, yes, but also a boy that wears his shirts with stains on them, and who once wore a bin on his head on live television, just to make Harry laugh.

 

“Seriously, Haz, don’t worry about it. I’m not expecting you to, like, deepthroat me,” he says, trailing off and unable to control his slight blush. “Just, do what you’re comfortable with, yeah?”

 

Harry blushes, too, but he nods. This he can do. He takes Louis’ cock in his mouth again, more confidently this time, and bobs his head up and down slowly the way he’s seen in porn, that way that make those boys go crazy, trying to keep his lips in a tight ring, just like Louis likes. It takes him a second to coordinate his hand with his mouth, but when he does, and sucks especially tightly, Louis’ abs clench. 

 

When he pulls away to catch a breath, a string of spit forms, connecting his lips to Louis’ glistening cock. It makes his stomach coil, breath quicken at the sight, and the vulgarity of it, the obscenity, of being connected to Louis in this way makes him lose his mind with lust.

 

He dives back again with fervour, sinking deeper and deeper, trying to recall the blowjob tips he read in his guilty midnight searches to relax his throat and take  _ more _ .

 

He  _ wants  _ more, he realises, wants Louis’ abs to clench the way they’re doing now with the effort of not thrusting into Harry’s mouth, wants Louis to relax, even, now that he’s got the hang of it, and have him take his pleasure from Harry’s mouth the way he wants, is straining to hold back.

 

He overcompensates in his fervour, gagging a little, but the moan that escapes Louis’ lips at the feeling is worth everything. 

 

Harry relishes it, even, the way Louis’ pleasure can be amplified the more he strains himself, and, suddenly, he wants nothing more than for Louis to just take from him, to disfigure his throat; he wants to feel the hard line of Louis so deep he chokes on it, wants Louis to feel himself moving in Harry’s throat by closing a hand there, around, wants his cheeks blown out and his lips swollen from it.

 

He’s dizzy with it, can feel himself sinking to a place where the only thing that matters to him is Louis’ cock, his thrusts, his pleasure.

 

It makes him delirious, the thought of his being reduced to nothing while Louis takes and takes, and he moans around Louis’ cock, absorbing the jump of his hips it evokes, and pulls off to jack him through it as he thinks of how to bring it up.

 

He knows Louis would never do it unless he asked — begged, even — never wanting to be the cause of anything but pleasure in Harry, but the euphoria in his veins is courage enough.

 

“Can you… you can do it harder.”

 

“What?”

 

“Like, um,” he stops, at a loss for how to really explain it, and hopes Louis guesses from the wildness in his eyes, the parting of his lips.

 

“You want me to fuck your mouth? Haz,” Louis starts, voice drawling with concern and a little skepticism and Harry interrupts him, not wanting to hear that he’s not as good as the others, not as experienced.

 

“Please, Lou, I  _ know _ , but I really want to. I’ll, um,” he pauses, trying to think of another argument to convince Louis, “I’ll just tap if I need you to stop, okay?”

 

Louis just groans and dramatically flops on the bed. “Harry, you’re gonna kill me.”

 

He’s relentless. “Is that a yes?”

 

“Okay, yeah. But please be careful and, oh god, stop me if it’s too much, okay?”

 

Harry’s smile is brilliant in his answer. 

 

He places his lips over Louis’ cock as Louis starts thrusting, hesitantly at first, checking in all the while, hands not so much pushing Harry down as just holding him there.

 

He doesn’t want this, though, for Louis to have to strain himself to see Harry’s face, monitor his expression for any signs of even momentary discomfort. He wants him to relax, to lose it, to lose himself  _ in _ Harry, and he wants this to be everything Louis wants, the best of his life. 

 

He groans his dissatisfaction around Louis’ cock, while he’s deep, wanting it to be a warning as much as just a filthy request because he’s at a point where he doesn’t feel like he can hold back much longer. He raises his eyes and eyebrows to Louis, hoping to convey his earnestness through his expression alone. 

 

Louis just rolls his eyes but starts thrusting again, then, a little slower, first, but then more and more and more. Harry can tell the instant Louis abandons his control and gives into the welcoming tightness of his throat; his knuckles turn white with the pressure of his grip in Harry’s hair, and his thighs clench with the strain of not trapping him entirely.

 

Louis’ hips begin to thrust chaotically, jerking himself in and out of Harry’s mouth unrhythmically, and Harry gives up any semblance of control he had over the pace, the depth, and lets Louis take it all, take his pleasure, rub his throat raw. 

 

He absolutely  _ loves _ this; can think of nothing more fulfilling for his life than being on his knees for Louis, and he can tell Louis loves this too, that he gets off on the roughness and control as much as Harry does on giving it.

 

His knees are starting to feel his weight after so long of balancing himself on the floor, and his scalp is aching with how strongly Louis is pulling on his hair, but he has never in his life felt so consumed, and validated, and in love. He can’t imagine ever  _ not _ getting to do this,  _ not  _ giving the warm wetness of his throat over to Louis to do with as he pleases, hearing his soft  _ ah, ah, ah _ s, getting more and more high-pitched, now, as he really begins to lose it.

 

His own cock is hard, too, aching with it, leaking precome steadily into the already-mess of his pants. He dares not palm himself, though, dares not pay attention to anything but the way Louis skips a breath when Harry moves his tongue against the vein on the underside, mouths at the sides on his cock. 

 

There’s a filthy line of spit connecting his lips and Louis’ cock as he pulls of to breathe for a second, and he  _ delights  _ in it, the visible reminder, like a stamp of proof that he had touched Louis there. 

 

He pulls off for a second to catch his breath and prepare himself, and sinks back down, further than he has before, choking himself but not caring, not when Louis moans loudest yet and pushes him further, jamming himself down Harry’s throat to the hilt; completely; all the way. 

 

When Louis shudders and comes, the image of it is more hallowed to him than any icon. He wants to burn the sight into the back of his eyelids, so that when he closes them — when he sleeps, when he dreams, when he dies — he wants to see only this; lovely, put-together Louis, a whirlwind of a boy, coming apart from Harry’s touch.

 

He catches the first load of it in his mouth, wanting to taste Louis at his most private, his most dirty, to know him intimately, lap at his body’s very core, where Louis forms life. He groans at the thought, and he hears Louis moan, too, as if they’re connected, because they are, especially like this.

 

He brings up a hand to jerk Louis through it and pulls off, milking the rest of Louis’ come onto his face, draping his cheeks and mouth with warmth, the proof of his instrument in Louis’ pleasure. He wants to be coated in it, too, his smell, his taste,  _ marked _ with it, wants everyone to know how  _ good  _ he made Louis feel, what a good boy he was for Louis.

 

He smears Louis’ come across his face with the back of his hand, a lewd gesture, and one that makes Louis’ eyes widen slightly, part his mouth open, and he just rubs it in more, moves the hand down over his chest, drags the stickiness over his heart.

 

Louis still looks broken, wild with it, and he raises his hands to claw at Harry’s arms, reach around his back and draw him onto the bed and into a feverish kiss.

 

“Hazza, baby, do you want, let me—”

 

“Yeah? You don’t, don’t have to, Lou, ‘s fine, I can—”

 

Louis groans and kisses him again, flips them over, pushes Harry down, and Harry goes wild at that alone, how pushy Louis is in bed, never one for softness and pliancy, even post-orgasm. Louis jacks him off so hard and fast, so roughly with his hands, that Harry’s gone, immediately; he never stood a chance. 

 

\-----

 

The circle of Louis arms is warm, and safe, and a little sticky when Harry recovers, and he raises his head through the orgasm-haze of his brain to grin at Louis. 

 

“Good?”

 

Louis’ eyes crinkle in a smile that mirrors his, and for a second they just gaze dopily at each other. 

 

“That was the best blowjob I’ve ever had.”

 

Harry pouts theatrically, but it’s marred by the depth of his dimple. “You’d say that anyway.”

 

“Yeah,” Louis says, but with a tone so genuine, and with eyes so earnest, that it beiles any joke. He smiles into their kiss, and it’s more teeth than lips with the enormity of their smiles, so wide, one drawing up the other, until they’re both laughing hard, giddy with it. 

  
  


_ We were like gods at the dawning of the world,  _ _ and our joy was so bright we could see nothing but the other. _


End file.
